


oh medusa, medusa (i’ve been here alone)

by TooManyGaysTooLittleTime



Series: Daensa Week 2021 [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: (it’s just Ned/Cat dont worry), Alternate Universe - Balon Wins the Greyjoy Rebellion, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Relationships, Canon Relationships, Child Death, Eventual Sansa Stark/Daenerys Targaryen, F/F, POV Catelyn Tully Stark, POV Third Person, Robb is technically in this but he dies very quickly, Slow Build, cannot reiterate enough how SLOOOW this is going to be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:14:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29520714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyGaysTooLittleTime/pseuds/TooManyGaysTooLittleTime
Summary: Written forDay Four of Daensa Week 2021 on Tumblr, prompt: Pirates, Mermaids, & the Sea.— where Sansa is a hostage and Daenerys is cursed.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sansa Stark/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: Daensa Week 2021 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2165004
Kudos: 9





	oh medusa, medusa (i’ve been here alone)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Medusa by](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=so-WPp5HeQI)[ Kailee Morgue.](https://open.spotify.com/track/131sUIJTuOwXZkzovJ1AGs?si=1Me2uY-gQqu5-HAE5xnhkQ)
> 
> [Moodboard for this fic available on my Tumblr.](https://lesbiangrimalkin.tumblr.com/post/643494448249077760/o-h-m-e-d-u-s-a-m-e-d-u-s-a-i-v-e-b-e)
> 
> Will be continued after Daensa Week 2021 is over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Major TW** for child death (it’s Robb im sorry to say)
> 
> this first chapter will probably be one of the shorter ones & it’s basically a prologue to the main story 
> 
> Chapter title from I Know The End by Phoebe Bridgers.

**289 AC**

* * *

The winter has not yet set in fully, for parts of the land are still green and rich without the pure white snow blanketing and concealing the land beneath, and already Robb Stark is to die.

His neck is laid across the wood block where condemned criminals go to die, but he is no condemned criminal: it is his status as heir to Winterfell that means he must die. And there is no escape available for him, no way that he could fight his way from his bonds and escape: he is still but a child, still does not understand. There are tears on his face, turned to tiny diamond-drops of ice in the cold — because he is uncomfortable with the wooden block his neck is on. He would not cry if he was older and he understood, for the Starks teach their children that all will die in the end. No, he cries because he does not know why this is happening to him. 

Balon Greyjoy does not hold the sword himself, for the Greyjoys are not honourable with things like these. They would much rather have another do their dirty work, in order that they can watch and delight in the suffering of others without the need for their own hands to be bloodied. Eddard might mutter something about the man who passes the punishment swinging the sword, but he cannot argue with the Greyjoys’ choice of executioner, else it might be his blood that shall stain the blood-darkened wood next. 

Ned’s bastard watches, as well, although it is from afar. Jon is held secure in the arms of one of the Starks’ men, for he is not quite tall enough to see over the crenels of Winterfell’s walls. It is merely his status as a bastard son that has saved Jon Snow from the swing of the executioner’s blade, but there was no such respite for Robb Stark. From the way that Jon gazes darkly down upon the scene below, it is clear that he understands that it could have easily been his head to be sliced away from his neck and roll into the mud.

And Sansa, saved from the deadly swing of the blade by virtue of being second-born and a daughter, is held captive in Alannys Greyjoy’s arms, wrapped in unfamiliar black-and-yellow cloth, and forced to watch as her brother will die to the Greyjoy headsman. To her credit, the girl — barely even a girl, in truth, for she is hardly out of toddlerhood — has not shed any tears, and only stares at the world with confused eyes. Neither she nor Robb completely knows what is happening to them, and that may hurt them less. Perhaps.

The entirety of Winterfell has been gathered to watch as the Greyjoy headsman mounts the executioner’s block and raises the sword. Balon nods for the execution to begin, and the headsman’s grip on the blade’s hilt tightens, readying.

Sansa does not scream as her brother is put to the sword. Everyone is clearly expecting her to, but the girl presses her lips together firmly and keeps her eyes wide open, even as the blade whistles downwards through the air and slices through the tendons of Robb’s neck all the way on the second attempt. The execution is not as clean as one might have hoped for the heir to Winterfell, Robb’s neck looking as if it has been hacked at by an untalented ax, but at least it is quick, and a quick death is merciful. 

In death — it seems to have come and gone so fast, Robb’s life, flickered out of existence like a candle suddenly blown out in the wind — Robb’s eyes are frozen open forever. He does not look like the noble lord he had wanted to be so badly, nor does he look powerful. Instead, he dies as he is, a boy, barely out of being a babe in Cat’s arms, and a stain of new, young blood melts into the wood, mingling and mixing with the rest of the blood. The blood of criminals and traitors, and all that Ned can think is that Robb’s blood should not be there. He was meant to live; he was meant to be heir to Winterfell and the seat of Warden of the North. 

Robb is only a child, and Sansa is barely out of toddlerhood, yet they have killed him and now Alannys gathers Sansa in her unfamiliar arms, stinking of salt and ocean waves, to take her away to the Iron Islands anyways. 

There is little Eddard or Catelyn can do about it: the wolves have fallen, and now the kraken sweeps in to claim the war-prizes of the reavers’ victory. Apart from the tears that Catelyn silently sheds when she has to hand over Sansa into the arms of Alannys Greyjoy, proud in her regalia as an Ironborn queen next to her husband. She barely casts Sansa a glance, and Catelyn can feel parts of her spirit shattering away, knowing that they will not care for her daughter like she had done. Alannys will not nurse Sansa when she falls ill, nor will she wrap Sansa in warm arms when the night terrors brought on by Old Nan’s stories affect her. Kindness will be in short supply for Sansa in her new life as a ward of the Greyjoys, but even an unkind life is easier than the fate that Robb has suffered. 

Ned’s arm is around her, offering silent support, and Catelyn feels that they are going through a great loss and change together, the world shifting around them. She only hopes that this shall not scar them too much, when it all comes to an end, for she thinks that they have both had their fill of suffering, _enough_ — hold it back for another time. 

Balon and Alannys turn their backs on Ned and Cat to leave, not having to fear the threat of a knife in their backs for the Starks have been brought low and the direwolf’s fangs ripped out at the roots. The courtyard is silent to observe their passing, arms wrapped around the waists of everyone there to bow down to their new rulers. And what terrifying and brutal rulers they are, dressed in the garb of reavers of old. They have taught Westeros to fear the reavers of the Iron Islands again. 

Sansa still does not cry out, and neither Ned nor Cat can tell whether it is because she is brave or simply because she does not understand what is happening to her. For her sake, they hope that it is because she is brave — for if she is not brave, then there is little hope for her among the Ironborn. 

After the Ironborn take their leave, returning to the Iron Islands like the tide moving out from the land, Ned and Cat take to the godswood to mourn, for there is little for them in the way of joy. It is the loneliest the godswood has ever been: even during the war, there was always another Stark in Winterfell. Now Eddard is the only true Stark left, for the heir is dead, and Sansa has been stolen to become a prisoner of the Greyjoys.

There is only silence and unanswered prayers at first. Catelyn tries to pray to the gods of the Seven, but the Seven have no power in Winterfell’s godswood, and Ned prays to gods older and more capricious than Westeros itself. All the while, the weirwood leaves continue falling around them, dipping their edges beneath the still water of an almost-frozen pond. It grows steadily colder for Cat, waiting there with only her husband and the silent, chilling presence of the face in the weirwood tree. 

At last, she speaks, trying to reassure Ned. “Not all is lost for us. The North is still strong, and Robert is still your friend as well as your king.” She slides a concerned hand over Ned’s back, her touch an attempt to soothe. “There will be more children, too, so long as I remain fertile.” 

“You are right, Cat, of course you are.” Ned’s voice is rough with disuse, for he has spoken little ever since the raven had brought word that the Ironborn had won their final victory over the northern forces. “But there will never be another Robb, nor another Sansa, for Sansa is almost as good as dead to us.” He catches Cat’s wrist and gently moves her hand off his back. “And what shall Robert think of me? Losing to the Iron Islanders? He was my friend, yes, but only before I was king. And a king cannot afford to have a weak ally. No, he will be friendly with Balon Greyjoy instead, now.” 

“Do not speak ill of yourself like that!” Cat’s anger is tempered by the need to be gentle, for she knows that both of them have suffered a great loss and must be treated softly in order that they do not shatter apart. “Hope still remains for us.” She lifts Ned’s hand in hers and places it against the soft swell of her stomach, smoothing his fingers down into position. Her gaze flicks from Ned’s hand against the finery of her dress, to his eyes, his lips, Ned’s expression slowly growing brighter, moving from stern, cold grief, as he realises what Catelyn is trying to tell him. 

She thinks that the baby gives a small kick at the feeling of Ned’s hand against her stomach, but perhaps that is only a flight of fancy. 

His eyes flick up from her stomach to her face, lips curling into an astonished smile. She sees the loss slowly dissipating, at least in part, as new life starts to begin, trying to fill the empty space that Robb’s beheading had left. “Cat, is that really — another child that you carry inside of you? Truly?”

Her smile comes slowly, but it comes to her lips, and that is more than nothing, more than the grief she feels that seems to hollow out her very soul. “Indeed, Ned. The midwife told me that it was so, and that I shall birth a new child some time this year or the next year.” Across her stomach, she slides her hand, swirling it over the material of her dress, trying to feel the life growing beneath her skin. 

The news makes Ned rise from where he kneels afore the weirwood tree, his gaze on Cat now rather than the blood-red sap eyes of the tree’s features. The weirwoods have always unnerved Cat, with their eyes appearing to be almost made of blood and their expressions frozen forever in a silent scream that will remain unheard for eternity. But they are a part of Winterfell, of Ned, and important to the strange religion that the North keeps, so she does not complain. 

“This is glorious news,” Ned breathes. “And auspicious, as well. A son to make up for the one that we have lost.” His hand is cupping Cat’s cheek all of a sudden, and his eyes have turned glassy, though whether those lingering, unshed tears are for Robb’s loss or in joy at the news of her pregnancy, she does not know. And then Ned’s lips are on hers, a small, close-mouthed kiss, devoid of any lustfulness. This kiss is one where their shared grief and loss can dance together. 

“Indeed,” Catelyn tells him, once their kiss is broken and she is holding him in her arms, stroking over the weary crown of his head. “A son born out of this tragedy. An auspicious sign indeed.” She tries to smile, but it simply will not rise to her lips and any joy she might have had is kept back by the weight of her grief upon her. 

Ned remains in Cat’s arms for awhile longer before he sends Cat away from the godswood. “Keep your faith in the Seven through your grief, and I shall keep my faith in my father’s gods through my grief.” She nods, and turns her back to hurry to Winterfell’s sept, where she may pray under the watchful eyes of the icons of the Seven that wait for her there. 

On her way there, she comes across Maester Luwin, who she stops to talk to. He, as well, seems to be grieving for their losses, for down the wrinkles and folds of his cheeks, Cat can see the dark trails of tears shed only moments before. Maester Luwin’s embrace is much like her father’s, Hoster, as he holds her in his arms comfortingly.

“My lady, there is little in the way of medicine that I may give you for what ails you, and I am sorry.”

“Why, there is no reason for you to be sorry.” Cat frowns. “There is nothing that you or I could have done to stop Robb’s — my son’s — his _death_.” She whispers the last words, swallowing down the urge to return to Maester Luwin’s embrace and shed her tears once more there. “And there is no medicine that may cure grief that I know of. I have seen grief before, Maester, and it is a familiar friend by now. This sorrow, too, shall pass.”

Luwin’s lips stiffen. “I hope that you are right, for I could not stand to see you and Lord Eddard laid so low by grief. If you wish me to bring you anything, you need only ask.”

“Thank you, Luwin, but I believe I shall not need any of your remedies. Right now, I need the company of the Seven and the comfort that the sept brings me.” Cat turns to leave for the sept, tugging the fur draped over her shoulders further up her neck. A stray glass tear falls onto a strand of fur, and Catelyn rubs it away with the pad of her index finger. 

“All the same, my lady, I am here for you.” Luwin gives her a reassuring glance, his eyes serious, and pats her shoulder in a fatherly manner. “My best wishes for your prayers and your gods.” 

She nods to him quickly before rushing to the small sept and taking her place, supplicant before the idols of the Seven. Catelyn closes her eyes, but it does not remove the furrows marring her brow, nor does it shut out the immense grief in her soul. Under her breath, she whispers a prayer, words spilling uncontrolled out of her mouth, trying to express the sorrow that blackens her spirit and dims the love in her heart. 

If she were another person, a lord, perhaps, Cat might be angry instead of sorrowful, might feel red-hot rage instead of the shadowy emptiness that has overtaken her. But she is only Lady Catelyn Stark of Winterfell, not some powerful lord, and she is not allowed to be angry, not allowed to be anything other than her husband’s dutiful wife. So she cries in sadness instead of screaming in anger, and she prays, for there is nothing else available to her. 

Whether the Seven hear her prayers, Cat does not know, but even the simple action of praying contents her, soothes some perturbed thing in her soul. The motions are simple, and life appears easier when she is on her knees with hands clasped together, trusting in her gods that her situation shall improve in time. She trusts almost violently in the promise of better, for she cannot allow herself to fall into the trap of thinking that things will get worse. Cat cannot allow the thought of a worse tragedy into her head.

She prays for Sansa, most of all, asks the Mother and Father to grant her love and protection, asks the Warrior to give Sansa enough bravery to survive among the Ironborn, begs the Smith to create a new life for Sansa and the Crone to give Sansa wisdom. Yet Cat also prays to the Stranger, this time, for the first and last time, prays that Robb’s afterlife — if he is even granted an afterlife — will be easier than his life, abruptly cut short by the swing of the headsman’s blade. 

After Catelyn has finished chanting her prayers, she stands, blinking her eyes open and watching the world come into blurred focus again. In front of her are the effigies of the Seven, and she whispers secreted words to each of them in turn. The Stranger is the last one, and Catelyn reaches out, runs her hand over a face that is neither a man’s or a woman’s. The Stranger’s face speaks silently of death and darkness, but to Catelyn, it is like a friend now, even though as a girl, it had terrified her. Something in her young soul had recoiled from it: the Maiden turned away from the Stranger, her youth golden and sun-bright in contrast to the darkness the Stranger emanated. Now, Cat is closer to the Crone, turned old and grey, and the Stranger scares her no longer, for she knows death and despair like a dear old friend. 

“You are death itself,” Catelyn declares to the empty sept, “and I know you intimately, now. You do not scare me any more, Stranger.” Her hand brushes over the unpainted wood of the Stranger’s face, thumb running over the hollows of the Stranger’s eye sockets. The menacing face scares her less than losing Robb and Sansa had.

It does not speak back to her, but death is silent when it comes for someone, and it is silent now, as well, as if biding its time before replying to her. Cat cannot make death fear her, that she knows well, yet she can defy the edict that one must fear death. She fears death not, for she has her own double-life in return for each life the Stranger steals from her. 

Her back does not turn from the Seven’s gaze until after she has left the sept, but Cat almost thinks that the Stranger’s unseeing eyes follow her even as she walks through Winterfell devoid of the warm comfort that the sept had brought her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, i love comments and kudos!! 
> 
> cannot reiterate enough how SLOW this fic will be. (slow build, slow updates probably, slow plot...) i do promise a daensa happy ending, though!

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! comments and kudos are highly appreciated <3


End file.
